Rants and meanderings from a science fiction writer to his future fans, or anyone else who'll listen, for that matter.

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Mr. Hellstrøm is an average drunken profligate, cynical bastard (read: disappointed romantic), and all-round lazy crazy son-of-a-bitch out to become a cult in his own right, shamelessly promoting himself (haha, good luck with that old boy) and the book before it is even done. Nonetheless, he does have an interesting slant on things now and again, as I can testify. After all, no one knows him better than I do.

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Holy fuck, I’s a learnin’ to dance, just when I thought I’m an old dog, no new tricks. Never say never, I always said, and now it’s come to dog me down.
All the music I love becomes a new dimension. I mean, I’s a thinkin’, each time I hear those songs I love, what beat is that, how could I dance to that with my partner? Y’know, partner-dance; anybody can dance alone.
Christ, crazy fucking world. The things I do for love . . . and it doesn’t even hurt, haha. Well, in fact, it does. It’s not the dancing that hurts, but rather the music you have to listen to while learning. You can’t learn it alone, not really, even with a partner, so you go to a dance school. You’ll never guess what kinda music they play there . . . well perhaps you can. Not exactly alternative music, if you get my drift. Just thank your stars you’ve never had to dance to German Schlager. I don’t think my partner realizes what sacrifices I make, just for love. It’s like a monk breaking his oath of silence, if not worse. Christ, sometimes I think murdering little children would be less taxing.
Nevertheless, I love it. There’s nothing like dancing with a woman you love. You notice there are dances which suit you, or her, and then there are dances that suit you both. You move together, synchronized, like fucking clockwork, but easy . . . it just fits. It’s no effort anymore, once you’re on a certain level; your feet move of their own accord, and you sway like a fucking reed in the wind, enjoying every beautiful moment of being in phase with another human being, a person you love. It’s like good sex, no joke.
And the greatest part, when you have a willful woman like I do, is that the man leads. Muahahaa. The man leads, no matter what. Uhm, I still have problems with that, since my partner can already dance, and I am completely unsure of myself and fuck it up all the time. The fact is, I’m not a good lead, though I’ve gotten better. But, oh well, she has to live with that, and it’s some compensation for having to dance to German Schlager. We then step on each other’s toes, and break apart and stop, and grin at each other, because we know exactly what is happening there. Her smiling eyes say, if I am to follow, you’ve got to lead, you son-of-a-bitch, I demand it of you. Show me what you can do. What can I do, but rise to the challenge as best I can? And I enjoy it, leading in spite of myself, in spite of the little voice in me that says she could lead. Gotta admit it turns me on. As I said, like sex. Put that little bitch in her place. Dangerous thought, that, but it’s a thought that only occurs to me when I know she wants it. Sensitive little romantic bastard that I am, I do know, when it gets down to the nitty gritty. Then it’s time to dance.

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Undying love. Unless of course you get hit by a taxi on the morrow. Or maybe cancer will get you. That’d be romantic, wouldn’t it now? Or perhaps the woman you love just stops. That’d be romantic too, because then you could live on, pining away at what’s been taken from you.
Fulfilled romantics are boring. Fulfilled… no romantics are ever fulfilled, are they? They just can’t get enough. It’s the heightening of feelings they want, and it seems as if that can only be gained through suffering. If they didn’t have to suffer for it, it wouldn’t be worth half as much. Its the suffering, the trials and tribulations crowned by ultimate victory, that makes it interesting. But the ultimate victory must always remain somehow unattainable, except of course in novels.
Suffering. Romantics are, for that very reason, insufferable. They just don’t get it. They live in a world all their own, a world separate from reality. They are victims of their own need for suffering. They never live. They need people who live in reality, but they can never quite do it themselves, poor bastards. They’ve read too many books. They truly believe there is more than the day to day, more than food, sex, and sleep. They talk, they walk, they sit, just like anyone else, but they are not of this world.
I describe myself. The crowning victory has been denied me, as yet. Predictably. There were a couple of moments where I thought I had it in my grasp, but things turned out differently. Life caught up with me. I’ve tried so hard to leave it behind me… slowly but surely I’m starting to wonder if I can ever succeed. It’s the sublime that I am seeking, that which can not be described with any words, no matter how industrious or creative the writer.
So, for the time being, I walk, I talk, and I sit. I piss, and I shit. I bleed when I am cut.